


A Thousand Years

by missandrogyny



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Canon Compliant, M/M, Reincarnation, Some Sex, idiot french revolutionaries, lol that makes no sense?? how is it an au if it's canon anyway, some greek mythology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-27 23:25:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/984886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missandrogyny/pseuds/missandrogyny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I have loved you for a thousand years, I'll love you for a thousand more."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Thousand Years

**Author's Note:**

> okay i know very little about greek mythology, so i apologize for any inaccuracies.

(This is how it happens:

He's drunk, they're both drunk, and they're both not thinking clearly. The room is spinning, as if tilted on an axis; it's spinning and then it's not. They've fallen on the floor, in a tangle of limbs and body parts, and Enjolras turns Grantaire's wrists up to the sky and holds, pins him down on the floor with the force of his strength and the sound of his moans.

Their hips roll together as they pant into each other's mouth, sharing breath, and they can stay like this, live off the air they share in the non-existent space between their mouths. Their eyes are shut, but in their minds they can envision it, can picture each part of the other's body with perfect clarity; a body they've learned and relearned through the different lifetimes they've shared. They both know where to spread their fingers, where to kiss to make the other beg, how move _just so_ to drive the other insane.

They are on the floor, in the backroom of the Musain, painting a masterpiece with only their body parts as they live in the space of their shared breath, a universe away from the galaxies that exist in the night sky.

In their heads, lifetimes converge and threads of memories tangle with each other, and they forget at this moment, who they are and what they have to do. All they are sure of is the taut body falling apart beneath the palms of their hands, the cries and moans that seem to pluck at their heartstrings, and the certainty of each other.

When they have spent, Enjolras stands and dresses efficiently. He does not speak, does not even glance at Grantaire sprawled on the floor like an offering. He simply strides out, like he had not torn himself down to his basest instincts moments before.

Grantaire stands, and with a sigh, dresses himself as well. He retrieves a full bottle of absinthe that had rolled under the table during their encounter, and spends the evening reacquainting himself with its taste.)

\---

It is 1832, and Lamarque is dying.

Discontent is stirring; there are words whispered in the dark corners of houses, words that wrap themself among the hearts of the people and squeeze. Words that fit between the cracks of the walls and the shadows of the fire place, because these words cannot be uttered and screamed into the night sky.

(But that does not mean some of them do not try, though.)

Grantaire watches as his friends scream each secret into the stars, watches as Enjolras screams the loudest of them all, and waits.

(He screams his secrets too, later, in the confines of his apartment, to the alcohol sitting inside his third bottle of absinthe.)

\---

He has always empathized with Icarus.

He understands the longing to touch something so bright, so beautiful, something that could be detrimental to him. The longing to fly close, as close as he can, to revel in its beauty, its warmth, its light, before falling into the dark abyss of the sea.

He had been warned, of course he was, but the sudden admiration and love that sprung from his heart the instant he saw the sun overpowered everything else. He did not hear Daedalus' calls, lost to the waves of the sea and the sudden roaring of his heart.

How close can he get to that beauty? How close until it can chase away the shadows in his heart, until he can be filled with light and joy like the sun in the sky?

He's flying, and then suddenly he's falling, falling down into the waves of the sea beneath him but he doesn't care, doesn't mind because at least he saw it, saw its beauty, saw its beauty as it burned him, as it sent him to his grave.

He died then, murdered by something so beautiful that he does not even care that his life has ended.

(He thinks he may have been Icarus in a past life. He is not sure, the memories are blurry and are tangling together.)

\---

("Grantaire," Enjolras says, a few days after their encounter. "I need to speak to you."

Their friends look up, curiosity written on their faces, and Enjolras adds: "alone."

Grantaire acquiesces; he picks up his wine bottle and follows Enjolras out the door and up into the wine cellar.

"How much do you remember?" Enjolras asks, turning to face him. His face is impassive but there is something worrying in his eyes.

"About our encounter? Nothing you do not want me to remember," Grantaire says, and takes a swig from his wine bottle.

"Not just about our encounter, about....How much do you remember?"

Grantaire stays silent, thinking for a moment, before his lips upturn into something similar to a smile and he says, "Everything.")

\---

He was Patroclus, and Enjolras was Achilles, still as beautiful and devastating as ever.

His father had sent him away, because even then his own father did not want him.

(Because he killed someone, but it was an accident.)

He was then sent away with Achilles to train with Chiron, and it is then that he finds himself laughing, learning and loving Achilles with all his heart. It is there he learns the taste of Achilles, his distinct smell of wood and musk, and remembers his face in pure ecstacy. It is here he learns how to make Achilles sing more beautifully than any bird, a song only he can hear.

It is here he teaches how to make Achilles put his fingers, long and calloused from playing the lyre, to good use. It is here Achilles learns how to tear him apart with only his fingers and a few chosen words.

(It is here he gives his heart away, fully and freely, and spends his lifetimes following it, never once taking it back. It is here he realizes that he will never, ever want anything more than this, never ever want anything more than Achilles, and he loved him with an all-consuming, powerful love that was destructive, but beautiful.

He dies for Achilles, because at that point, there is nothing he would not do for that man. He dies and his last thought is Achilles' sated smile as they lay in the woods, just after he reached the climax of his ecstacy.)

\---

("Enjolras," Grantaire says, and he says this like a prayer, filled with so much reverence.

Their friends have gone home; only they remain in the fading candlelight of the Musain.

"Go home, Grantaire," is Enjolras immediate answer, and Grantaire smiles bitterly at him.

"What makes you think this revolution of yours will work this time?" Grantaire asks, and his voice has lost all its reverence, replaced instead by bitterness and cynicism. "Paris has undergone so much, and yet look at us, still dirty and treated like animals while the bourgeoisie go off and throw our money around."

"We shall never know, if we do not try," Enjolras answers, still not looking up from where there are papers spread of the plans for the revolution.

Grantaire snorts. "But what if trying equates to death?"

"Then death it shall be," Enjolras murmurs mostly to himself, but Grantaire catches it. "I die, knowing that I have at least tried to free our beloved city from the chains of oppression. I die, knowing that one day, people will rise up, and the sun will soon shine upon the light-starved grounds of our country. I die for the people, and for Patria, and there is no greater reward that man can ask for."

"But it is wasteful," Grantaire argues. "You will have lost so much lives, for what? To place a small stepping stone in the long road to freedom? There is no point to this abnegation. You are wasting lives, Enjolras, wasting blood of men who can still live a content life." _You are wasting your life_ , he wants to say, but he cannot speak the thought.

Enjolras looks up from his papers and catches Grantaire's gaze. He looks disappointed, as he always does when he looks at the drunkard sitting in the corner of his meetings.

"What happened to you?" Enjolras asks quietly. "What changed between the past and Paris?"

It is not the first time they've ever acknowledged a past beyond this lifetime; however, it is the first time they've spoken about the lifetimes they've shared, in places across the sea. Grantaire remembers it clearly, the way they loved beneath the stars in the sky, the way their lips tasted like honey. He remembers the beaches they had lain on as they relearned the contours of each other.

He remembers it all, even things he would like to forget.

"Patroclus," Enjolras says, and Grantaire reacts because that name is ingrained to him, carved in his bones, together with the other names he's owned.

"Achilles," he acknowledges, raising his bottle in a mock toast before taking a drink of it.

"Pylades," Enjolras says, and there is a challenge in his eyes; they are playing a game, to which they both do not know the rules to.

"Orestes," Grantaire answers swiftly, and then as an afterthought tacks on, "Alexander."

Enjolras scoffs, and Grantaire shrugs because he knows Enjolras does not like that name, does not like how he had conquered countries and cities and forced his army upon places he was not wanted. Still, he answers after much hesitation: "Hephaestion."

Grantaire smirks at him, and they stay silent for a moment, searching each other for something they both do not know, but will recognize once found.

"Grantaire," Enjolras says, and he sounds disappointed, like he simply cannot fathom how the man he had loved all those lifetimes ago is in this drunkard of a cynic. Because even Grantaire's existence is a disappointment. He cannot even gain the respect he had in those previous lives.

"Paris," Grantaire answers, and when Enjolras looks at him questioningly, he elaborates: "You asked me what changed, my answer is Paris. I saw Paris, I lived in Paris, and I realized, nothing is ever going to change.")

\---

He was Pylades, next, and Enjolras was Orestes, as determined and passionate as ever.

He had not wanted to go, but the last of his self-control crumbled when he saw Orestes standing there, as beautiful as ever.

He could not say no, and so he went.

They lay in beaches and tasted honey on their lips; they shared breaths and beds and gasped each other's name into the constellations that littered the sky. They tasted every piece of skin they could, leaving marks and bruises. Even as they planned Orestes' revenge, they kissed and laughed and traced patterns on the scars they've acquired.

(When Pylades returned home, his father renounced him.)

So they ran, found the most beautiful beaches and created their own paradise on earth. They did not need much; they only needed each other, the warmth of the other's palm in their own. They ran, and married women but returned to each other, to whom they found was their one and only equal.

(When Orestes died by a snake bite on his foot, Pylades had wept, feeling like he himself had died as well.)

\---

It is 1832, and they are gathered at the Cafe Musain, as they always are.

Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac are making plans, discussing the barricade and the arms they have collected. The other Amis are enraptured, making plans about how to best protect their side of the city.

"Citizens, the time is near," Enjolras says, and the others murmur in assent. "Patria has been opressed for far too long. We are given this task; we are to free her from her bonds. Will you join me, my friends, and bring freedom to us all?"

There are a chorus of shouts and cheers, and Grantaire does not mean to look up from where his gaze is trained on the table, but he does, and almost falls off the chair when he finds Enjolras gazing straight at him.

(Will you join me, my friend?)

"Grantaire?" Joly's voice breaks him out of his thoughts, and he shakes his head to clear his thoughts. "Are you alright? You suddenly seem ill."

"I'm fine, my friend," Grantaire laughs, albeit forced, and waves a hand to Joly. "It is just the drink; I've drank too much, yet there is still more to be had."

Joly looks at him skeptically, but leaves him alone after that.

\---

There were centuries when they did not find each other; centuries that Grantaire chooses to forget.

Grantaire had mostly ended up in Asia, and he did not know where Enjolras had ended up. Those years were not memorable; there was nothing that kept him alive, nothing that kept him going. He simply existed in those times, finding a semblance of contentment, but never joy, never the all-encompassing love he wanted.

And one day, he ends up in Greece, again, and he finds himself watching someone from afar. He watches, and waits, and when those blue eyes turn to him, his heart hammers into his chest.

He was Hephaestion, and Enjolras was Alexander the Great.

And they fall into each other again, as quickly as they did before.

The rest, as they say, is history.

(He had gotten sick in Alexander's army, and smiled as Alexander fretted over him, took care of him like he never had in their former lives together.

But he was sick and so he died, and right before he slipped away he felt Alexander's arms holding him tightly.)

\---

"General Lamarque is dead," the street urchin tells them, and the entire Cafe Musain falls silent.

\---

("You're worthless," Enjolras angrily says to him, his hand reaching out and taking the bottle from Grantaire's hand. "Were you always like this?"

"Yes," Grantaire answers because he is drunk and the room is spinning like it did all those nights ago and Enjolras is so angry and beautiful that he simply cannot help himself. "I did not think anything was worth it, even since before."

"But you were not such a layabout drunk," Enjolras says, still angry. "In this life, you don't even believe in anything!"

Grantaire had propped his head up on his palm and, for a moment, he seemed to be sober.

"I believe in you.")

\---

The lifetimes before Paris were once again lifetimes he did not see Enjolras, and they were lifetimes he did not enjoy.

(But, he remembers one lifetime, one he treasures together with his adventures in Greece.

He was born a native, in an archipelago of islands in the East. He lived as the natives then did, hunting, fighting, laughing, dancing--it was simple, yet it was something he was content with.

One day, he wakes up, and there are metal boats on the pristine shore of their little island. He watches as his people welcome these visitors, listens as they speak in a beautiful language he cannot comprehend, and then joins with his people to show them the culture and traditions of their tribes.

His eyes catch sight of one of them, standing in the crowd, but watching him, always watching him.

Soon, he watches as the leader of his tribe declares war on the visitors, and when it devolves, he runs into the forest, away from the war, away from the bloodshed that's staining their pure beach.

He becomes aware of someone following him, and he turns; there, slightly out of breath, is the beautiful visitor who had stayed in the crowds and watched as he performed their rituals.

He does not know what to do, until their eyes meet, and there is a jolt of something in his spine.

He is about to open his mouth to say something, but before he can, he is struck by an arrow to his back.

He vaguely registers a voice he knows so well calling out something in that beautiful language, and he feels a hand grasp his own for a few short moments before he's gone.)

\---

"Enjolras!" He calls out on the street as he stumbles toward a figure, quite a distance away.

The figure turns. "Grantaire?"

Grantaire runs, his feet tripping over each other until they are standing an arms' length away from each other.

"Do not do this," Grantaire pleads, and his voice is devastated. He reaches out and curls his hand around Enjolras' arm. "Please don't do this. You have a choice, you can still stop this from happening, please do not continue with this."

"I must, Grantaire," and Enjolras does not even waver, because he must free the oppressed, he must deliver justice for all; and Grantaire knows all this, but he still holds on the small sliver of hope that maybe Enjolras will call it off before daybreak.

"For me, please." Grantaire is begging, he is putting himself on the feet of his beloved, asking him not to push through with this.

"Grantaire," Enjolras sighs, and he reaches out and curls a hand at the base of Grantaire's neck.

"I cannot lose you again," Grantaire says. "I have lost you so many times, in so many lifetimes and I cannot bear to go through this again."

"You will not lose me," Enjolras answers immediately.

"You do not know that!"

Enjolras is silent for a few moments, and Grantaire speaks again. "You do not know whether or not you will live, you do not know the outcome of what tomorrow will bring. What if it is simply another failed rebellion?"

"What if it is not?" Enjolras challenges.

"What if it is?" Grantaire presses.

Enjolras does not speak, and Grantaire watches as the emotions play out on his face.

"Grantaire," Enjolras says resignedly. "I have given my heart to the people. I belong to them."

"Then give your heart to me instead," Grantaire begs. "Give it to Combeferre or Courfeyrac, I do not care, the important thing is that you are safe."

"I must choose the cause over you," Enjolras says with finality.

"What if this is the last time I see you again? What if this is the last shared lifetime we have together?" And Grantaire knows he is beginning to cry, but he cannot seem to stem the flow of his tears. "I do not want to lose you and never see you again. I do not want to see you die, Enjolras. Please, just choose yourself over the cause. Please."

"You are not asking me to choose myself over the cause. You are asking me to choose you over it, and I cannot." Enjolras looks away and takes a deep breath. "In any other lifetime, Grantaire, I have always chosen you. In any other lifetime, I will always choose you. But not in this one."

Grantaire stays silent, and Enjolras sighs once more. "I'm afraid you cannot move me from this matter, my friend. Now, will you join me tomorrow? You may choose not to."

"I will," Grantaire says without hesitation, though the tears flow freely from his eyes. "I will always join you. I will always follow you wherever you may go, surely you must know this."

"I had thought perhaps that has changed as well, in this lifetime."

"No," Grantaire answers. "It will never change."

Enjolras smiles at him, a small, sad smile, and brings their foreheads together. They share a breath, for a moment, and they have created, once again their own small universe, where they can subsist on each other alone.

It only lasts, however, for a span of a few heartbeats.

\---

This is how it ends:

There is blood on the road, spilling beneath the cracks of cobbled streets. There is blood on their hands, blood they cannot wash off. There is so much blood.

The barricade has fallen, and all their friends are dead. Only Enjolras is left, standing proudly against the sunlight from the room above the Musain. The National Guard is have their muskets trained upon him, and yet he still stands tall, like the beacon of hope he was always meant to be.

He will not die alone.

Grantaire stands, from where he was sprawled on the table and makes his way towards Enjolras, because he cannot stand to watch him die. He looks to the man who has held his heart for lifetimes, and he feels his heart pound on his chest.

(This is where he is meant to be.)

Their eyes lock in silent communication, and something shifts inside Grantaire, and then he is speaking, asking "Do you permit it?" and it feels like the room is spinning again, tilted on its axis that leaves Grantaire dizzy and breathless. 

He is not certain if they will be reborn again. He is not certain if they will ever share a lifetime again. But, he thinks, if this is the last, he will at least die content.

Enjolras smiles, and takes his hand.

\---

(And maybe, if the fates are kind, one can imagine this:

A young man with dark hair is walking the campus grounds of the university he attends. He has a sketchbook tucked under his arm, and he is looking around, looking for something special to sketch.

He does not notice when he bumps into another young man, and sends his sketchpad and the other man's books on the floor.

"I'm sorry, I didn't notice you," he says, bending down to help retrieve the books and his sketchpad.

When he looks up, he finds himself looking into a familiar pair of eyes; the brightness of which even centuries could not diminish.

He stands, and hands over the books, never once tearing his eyes away.

His hand shakes, just a little bit.

"Thank you," the other man says, and he, too, seems at a loss of what to do.

"Hi," the first young man blurts out, because he cannot think of anything to say, cannot think of something to tell this beautiful man with the familiar eyes.

The other man is silent for a few minutes, and the first young man wonders if he's got it wrong, if he should just walk away and pretend it never happened.

He's about to open his mouth to apologize again when the other man says "Hi," and he reaches out to take his books, and their hands brush slightly; it leaves their hearts pounding loudly and gasping for air.

The first man smiles tentatively, and the second man smiles back. And maybe this is it, maybe this is another shared lifetime that the fates had given them, maybe they can finally make it through, together.

But only if the fates are kind.)

**Author's Note:**

> Say hi on [tumblr](http://jehass.tumblr.com)!


End file.
